2-in-1 Yada Yada (18 page)

And I really was jealous of Stu.

18

M
y load of laundry was sitting on top of the dryer, sopping wet. Rats! I'd forgotten to turn the washing machine back on after Denny's shower. It looked like our upstairs neighbors—a working couple who never seemed to be home—had moved my unfinished load so they could do some laundry while we weren't home. With only two households using the washer and dryer, it usually wasn't a problem. But now I couldn't remember whether my load had been in the wash or rinse cycle.

I gave up and ran it through all over again.

When I came into the kitchen from the basement, I could hear Amanda and Edesa exchanging Spanish phrases in the dining room.
“Como te llamas?” . . . “Me llamo Amanda.” . . . “Cuánta gente
en su familia?” . . . “Hay cuatro personas en mi familia.”
Caught that one. Something about “my family.”

Edesa had arrived right at four o'clock. Amanda seemed to take to her right away, probably because she was young and pretty and shook Amanda's hand with a delighted smile—unlike Mr. Ortez, Amanda's teacher, fiftyish, who seemed to have a perpetual frown engraved between his flabby jowls. Now that I thought about it, that frown would not make me want to ask for extra help, either. But Edesa hadn't wasted any time getting down to business. She'd asked for Amanda's last few quizzes to get an idea of what her weak areas were and they'd set right to work.

Denny and Josh came home from the men's workday at Uptown Community right in the middle of the Spanish lesson, and of course had to tromp into the kitchen for something to eat. I followed them, trying to get them to muffle the sounds of two hungry males pulling out chips and salsa and popping cans of Coke. “What's for supper,Mom?” Josh said in a failed attempt to keep it to a whisper.

“Your mom and I are going
out,”
Denny said. “Supper is whatever you and Amanda can find to eat.”

Amanda's voice floated in from the dining room. “Can Edesa stay for supper?”

“No, no. That's all right. Thank you anyway,” Edesa protested.

I looked at Denny.
Now
what?

As it turned out, Denny admitted later it was a delightful time getting to know Edesa over a quick supper of quesadillas—tortillas topped with melted cheese and piled high with shredded lettuce, chopped tomatoes, chopped green onions, and salsa—with a side of packaged red beans and rice. It was one of our “easy meals”—ready in thirty minutes—and I didn't think much about it until Edesa held up one of the store-bought flour tortillas and said with a teasing grin, “My mama makes these from scratch . . .”
Pat-pat-pat-pat
—she flipped the tortilla from side to side between her palms. “. . . and bakes them in a brick oven. Mmmm. Now
that's
a tortilla.”

I was horrified. Edesa must've thought we were trying to give her an “authentic” Honduran meal or something. But before I could get out a protest, she pointed at my face—I'm sure my mouth and eyes were round as Cheerios—and burst out laughing. Amanda, Josh, and Denny joined right in, though why they felt the joke was on
me,
I don't know.

But that sparked a lot of questions from Josh and Amanda about the town in Honduras where Edesa grew up. Most of the population, she said, was
mestizo
—mixed Amerindian and European—with blacks, whites, and indigenous Indians making up about 10 percent. Her people were descended from African slaves who rebelled in the Caribbean and were exiled to Honduras by the British. “Unfortunately, racism exists in Honduras, too,” she said, her eyes liquid and dark, like looking into a deep well. “We are still considered ‘outsiders.'When Hurricane Mitch hit the coast in 1998, no one sent us any aid, especially those of us who belong to Pentecostal churches—a small minority in a largely Catholic country.”

By the time we finished talking, it was getting dark, and Denny was concerned about Edesa riding the el alone. So, for our “date” we gave her a ride home to the Near West Side—not too far from where Delores lived, she said. The night was clear, and the brightest stars could be seen in the darkening sky as we drove down Lake Shore Drive, in spite of the brilliant lights from Chicago's skyline. The Loop was alive with horse-drawn carriages, partygoers heading for restaurants or the theater, and families silhouetted against the colorful sprays of Buckingham Fountain enjoying the May evening. But when we had spit out of the other side of the Loop like a watermelon seed zipping west on the Eisenhower Expressway and finally turned off on the narrow one-way streets of the Near West Side neighborhood, the darkness seemed to close in around us.

“Sweet girl,” Denny said, coming back to the car after walking Edesa into the dim pocket of her apartment building foyer and making sure she got inside okay. “Now what? Too late for a movie—unless you want to go for the late show.”

“Uh-uh. Not with church tomorrow,” I groaned. But I did have an ace up my sleeve. “Wanna try out the Bagel Bakery? I hear they got awesome Jewish pastries.” I waggled my eyebrows knowingly and fished out a scrap of paper where I'd written the address from the yellow pages that afternoon. “On Devon somewhere.”

Denny looked at me suspiciously. “Do I detect another Yada Yada conspiracy afoot? Jodi . . .”

“Only if you want to,” I amended hastily.

“Hey,” he said, turning the key in the ignition. “I'm only along for the ride.” But his hangdog look was so exaggerated I punched him on the shoulder. “Okay, okay,” he agreed. “Why not? I didn't have anything else to suggest anyway.”

IT WAS ALMOST EIGHT-THIRTY by the time we pulled into the parking lot of the tiny strip mall on Devon, and the Bagel Bakery was hopping. Denny held the door for me. “Popular place.”

Inside, a warm, homey smell pulled us into the waiting arms of the bakery. Loaves of bakery bread and freshly made bagels and bialies—rye, pumpernickel, onion, egg, wheat, cinnamon—and various sugary pastries filled the glass cases. An overhead menu— fast-food style—offered soup, bagel and bialy sandwiches, cheese blintzes, kugel, potato latkes, and kreplach, whatever that was.

Denny eyed the food as plates were handed to waiting customers, trying to figure out what was which, but my attention was drawn by a young woman with short, spikey hair behind the bakery counter. “Half a pound of ruggeleh?” she was saying to a customer. “Do you want the raisin-filled or raspberry . . . both? You got it.” A moment later the customer walked toward the cashier with her white paper bag.

“Yo-Yo?” I ventured.

The young woman behind the counter stared at me for a moment, then broke into a huge smile. “Jodi? Hey, Jodi! Speak of the devil . . . and is that your man?”

I grinned. “Yeah. That's Denny.” I pulled “my man” away from the food counter. “Denny, this is Yo-Yo, one of the women in my prayer group at the conference.”

“Right. ‘Yada Yada,' ” he teased, as if giving the secret password. “I'm delighted to meet you, Yo-Yo, and everything looks so good I may stuff myself.”

“Go right ahead! Get something to eat. I'll take a break in a few minutes and come join you.” She turned to another customer. “What you want tonight, Mr. Berkenstein?”

Armed with a pumpernickel bagel piled with lox and cream cheese for Denny, and a spinach and cheese blintz for me, we looked around for a table. The place was full of men, women, and children—a gray-haired grandfather over there, tickling a dark-haired cutie who tried to protect her “tickle zones” amid peals of laughter . . . a mother scolding, “Eat! Eat! I paid good money for that kugel!” . . . teenagers huddling in a corner . . . and a table of four women, dyed heads all bent together like a cootie convention. I noticed that almost all the males—young and old—were wearing small, black, embroidered caps, anchored to their heads with clips or bobby pins.

“You need a yarmulke,” I teased Denny, edging toward a booth that was being cleared by a young man in a white apron.

A few minutes later Yo-Yo came out from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron, revealing her signature denim overalls underneath. “Hey, Jodi,” she said again, sliding in beside me on the yellow vinyl seat across from Denny. “What brings you here?”

“To see you,” Denny offered. “We're supposed to be on a date, but . . .” He tried on his hangdog expression again.

“Don't pay any attention to him. He's fine. And he'll be fat, too, if he hangs out here much longer.” I tipped my head toward the general hubbub around us. “This place always this busy?”

Yo-Yo shook her head. “Nah. But Saturday night after Shabbat ends, they flock in like bees around honey. Sunday morning, too.”

“Shabbat?”

“You know . . . like Sunday for you, only Saturday. We close at sundown on Friday, open at sundown on Saturday.” She shrugged. “Get Friday night and Saturday off, anyway.”

“You Jewish, Yo-Yo?” Denny asked between bites of his bagel.

“Me?” She guffawed. “I ain't nothin'. But it's a good place to work. Ruth got me the job, you know. Speaking of Ruth . . .”Yo-Yo craned her neck, scanning the lively tables and the people who kept coming in. “Ruth and Ben usually come in Saturday night. Haven't seen 'em yet, though—oh. But you can meet Jerry.”With hardly a break she raised her voice and yelled, “Jerry!
Jerry!
C'mere!”

A young boy about twelve or thirteen untangled himself from the knot of teenagers clustered around the corner table and came over to our booth. He wasn't wearing a yarmulke, though I thought he could've used one of those clips to keep the shock of lank, brown hair out of his eyes.

“Jerry, this is . . .” She looked blank for a moment. “Jodi!” she hissed. “What's your last name?”

“Baxter.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, friends o' mine. And
this”
—she swatted the boy playfully on his rear—“is my kid brother. Say hi, Jerry.”

“Hi Jerry.” The boy snickered at his own joke, then gave a little wave. “Nice ta meetcha.” He grinned and backed away toward the corner table.

“Kids,” Yo-Yo snorted. “Ain't got the manners down yet. I'm still working on keeping 'em fed and a roof over their heads. Pete —that's the older one, he's sixteen—he's out with some friends tonight. Scares me to death to let him out of my sight.”

The enormity of Yo-Yo's situation—working a full-time job, trying to raise two teenage brothers—left me speechless for several moments. Denny, too. I could tell he was watching the boy as he melded back into the group of young people.

“Yo-Yo,” I said, “have you gotten any of the e-mails from Yada Yada this week? I know you don't have e-mail yourself, but Ruth said—”

“Yeah, yeah. Ruth has printed out stuff and brought it to me every couple of days.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Hope it works . . . keeping that prayer thingy goin', I mean. People got some stuff, don't they?”

That
was the truth. I desperately wanted to ask if Ruth had talked to her about that whole foster-care business, but Yo-Yo jumped in again. “Hey. Maybe Yada Yada needs to get together, rather than just computer talk, ya know? Got plenty of reasons. Why don'tcha throw Florida a party—a five-year sobriety party? Man, if
I'd
been on them drugs and stayed clean for five years?
I'd
want to party—not party party, but you know, with folks like you and the rest of them women I met at the conference. 'Cause that's major stuff—Hey! There's Ruth and Ben. Hey, Ruth! Ben!” she yelled across the crowd. “Look who's here!”

19

I
saw Ruth Garfield's eyebrows lift as they came in the door, and she headed our way, her husband trailing behind. Yo-Yo hopped off the vinyl seat. “Look who's here—Jodi and . . .”

“Denny. Denny Baxter.” Denny slid out of his seat, stood, and shook hands with both Ruth and Ben. Ben looked about sixty, with wavy silver hair and crinkly friendly eyes. “I'm really happy to meet you, Ruth.” Denny clasped her hand in both of his. “This Yada Yada group seems to have taken over our house ever since Jodi got back from that conference.” He motioned to the padded bench he'd just vacated and slid in beside me. “Sit down, please!”

Yo-Yo grinned at the Garfields. “The usual? I'll get it. You guys talk. I gotta get back to work anyway.”

“Got any beer, Yo-Yo?” Ben gestured at Denny. “Want a beer, Denny?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Make that two, Yo-Yo!”

I felt my face go hot. Denny was going to drink a
beer,
right here in public, in front of my new friends? One of which was a “Messianic Jew,” or whatever a Christian Jewish person was called, and Yo-Yo wasn't a Christian at all!
What's wrong with this picture,
Denny?
I wanted to yell.

I felt like the “picture” had flash-frozen, but it was probably only for a millisecond, because Ruth reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “Oh, Jodi, I
am
so glad to see you. You don't know . . .”

“Uh . . . me, too, Ruth. I know it's only been a week, but it seems like a year!”

“I know.” She tossed a look at the two men, who were already jabbering away. “Looks like Ben and Denny hit it off.”

I shifted nervously. What did she mean by that? Drinking buddies already?

“Tell me, how is everybody?” Ruth asked eagerly. “I mean, in Yada Yada. Have you seen anybody else since last weekend?”

My knotted muscles relaxed slightly. I'd been worried that Ruth had been blown out of the water by Florida's strong reaction to her “suggestion” about kids in foster care. But she seemed to genuinely want to know about the others.

“As a matter of fact, today especially! I saw Florida this morn-ing”— I purposely dropped this in, but moved right on—“and Edesa, bless her heart, offered to tutor my daughter, Amanda, in Spanish, so she was at our house today. And let's see . . . oh, yes, Avis and I went to see José Enriques last Monday night, so we both got to see Delores—”